The Zen Zone
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: Sam was fraying. Between S.H.I.E.L.D, school, and chores at home, he felt that there weren't enough hours in the day. He noted with envy that Danny, however, was always calm, no matter what was exploding around him. Maybe Sam could learn something about relaxation.


**Note: **I'm obsessed with _Ultimate Spider-Man,_ and many of its ships are pathetically unpopular. This is the perfect job for me.

* * *

><p>The kitchen swelled with the steam and smell of dinner. The curtains fluttered demurely in the breeze. Wisps of vapor slithered from beneath the lids of rattling pots. A kettle of pasta boiled violently.<p>

Sam bent over the sink, skinning the peels off potatoes. Long curls of peel flew over the counter, scattering like brown streamers. The pale potato flesh made a crunching noise against the knife blade.

Mechanically, Sam tossed the skinned potato into a bowl. It bumped around noisily before Sam smacked on the water faucet. Water gushed out in a hiss, swirling to gurgle down the drain.

Footsteps smacked behind Sam, popping over the tile. The refrigerator door opened with the unsettling _smooch _of the gasket peeling away. Bottles of soy sauce and ketchup in the shelves clattered.

"This fridge is as barren as a desert," announced Peter after a while of examination. He shut the door, cutting off the frosty breeze that curled like a ghost around Sam's feet.

"What are you rooting around for?" Sam said, shaking the bowl of potatoes under the jet of water. "I'm making dinner. You going to gorge on leftover pizza so you won't have room for my cooking?"

Peter's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Huh. I hadn't thought of that. Good idea, Sam." Before Sam could protest, Peter jerked open the refrigerator again to pull out a squashed, soggy pizza box.

Sam listened to the cardboard rustle as Peter extracted a stiff slice of pizza. The rubbery strands of cold cheese that bound the pizza to the box snapped like a bungee cord. Sam's shoulders slowly inched up in a cringe when Peter began chewing. He sounded like a cow smacking on a wad of cud.

Between the rush of water, the bumping of potatoes against plastic, and Peter's chewing, the garbling sound of water slopping out of the pots went unheard.

Creamy froth launched out of the pot, sloshing over the stovetop to hiss with fury over the scalding glass. Foamy water rolled free in a tidal wave, splattering in a shower of steam over the floor.

Armed with the enormous bowl, Sam twisted over the sink to nudge the faucet with his elbow. A few stray peels fluttered to the ground. One caught on the pink canvas of Sam's apron and clung there persistently.

"Uh, Sham?" Peter's voice, clogged with a gob of pizza, came from behind Sam. "Is the shtove shupposed to be doing that?"

Sam turned, rolling his eyes in disgust. "What'd you say, Par––" His gaze fell back to rest on the stove. His eyes widened like saucers.

"The stove!" He shoved the bowl onto the counter and vaulted across the kitchen. The sound of potatoes tumbling from the toppled bowl was like thunder. Sam's heels skidded in the hot water that dribbled onto the floor, but he didn't notice in his haste to grab at the pot. He hefted one, then another, giving each a swift shake, and popped them back down to the stove-top with a _bang_. Shooting up on tiptoe, he reached over the crowd of sizzling pots to snap off the heating knobs.

The persistent crackle of foam drying around the bottoms of the pots filtered through the silence. A dazed minute dragged past.

Peter swallowed. The gulp sounded like a bullfrog.

"Wow, Sam," he said, his eyes flickering to survey the damage. "Think this qualifies for a visit from damage control?"

"Shut _up,_" said Sam. He lashed out to snatch a dishrag and bent down, scrubbing furiously at the water that oozed over the floor, gathering in the slats between the tiles. His apron billowed in wrinkles around his knees. Water began to seep into the fabric, staining it from piglet pink to burgundy.

Peter watched. Struggling against the itch of guilt, he wormed around in his seat.

"Hey," he said finally, "you need help or something?"

"_No,_ I don't. I can take care of it." He ripped a wad of paper towels from the roll and daubed up the water that crawled along the edge of the stove. The soggy towels made a slopping noise when he flung them aside.

He had nearly finished mopping up the mess when a pungent, acrid smell filtered through the hot air. It smelled like tires squalling over pavement: smoky and rubbery. He froze, hand on the rag. His face contorted in a grimace.

"Good grief. I warned you about that pizza, Parker, and did you listen? No, of course n––"

"That wasn't me, bucket-brain." Miffed, Peter leaned back. The chair legs squeaked. "You sure it's not pasta water drying on the stove?"

"No, it wouldn't smell like . . . ." Sam went rigid as a boulder. "Cake!"

He scrambled upright, skidding in the water, and lunged for the oven. His fingers hooked over the handle for support, and he steadied himself on the counter before yanking open the door. A mushroom of inky smoke billowed out, swirling in fluffy wads toward the ceiling.

Peter scrabbled from the chair, hurtling at the oven. He slammed his shoulder against Sam, sending him flailing out of the way. Swiping an oven mitt from the counter, he stuffed his hands into the belching smoke, groped, and withdrew a warped pan.

His elbows propping him upright in the catercorner of the counters, Sam slouched with dismay. He groaned, slumping until his chin touched his collar.

"My cake . . . ."

"It's totaled." Peter swept another mitt from a drawer and fanned the air, ushering the smog toward the ceiling, which was already dusted with soot. He plopped the mitt onto the counter and slid on the pan. Cautiously, he leaned over to peer in. The cake looked like crumbled chunks of charcoal crusted in the bottom.

"You know, I think I'll skip dessert."

Before Sam could retort, a screeching beep cut through the silence. He hunkered down, clapping his hands over his ears. The skull-rattling shriek echoed through the house.

"What is that?" Sam shouted, squeezing deeper into the corner. Peter cringed, unplugging one finger from his ear to jab at the ceiling.

"Smoke alarm."

Footsteps pounded upstairs. A faint yell came from the bathroom.

"How do you turn it off?" Sam yelled, pressing his hands more tightly against his ears. The alarm blared until the glass in the windows vibrated.

Somebody came clattering down the stairwell. Heels clacked against the steps. In a flurry of bobby pins, Aunt May rushed in, her eyes wide.

"What's going_ on_?" Her gaze roved the room. As it landed on the stove, all the color drained from her face. The door of the oven hung open, giving the impression of a mouth agape in a massive belch. Foam was drying in a brown crust over the stovetop. The smell of vinegar and old eggs hung over the room like a sweaty blanket.

"Peter," Aunt May said in exasperation, "get a chair and turn that thing off!"

Peter bolted. He snagged a chair and dragged it under the honking smoke alarm while Aunt May took the kettles to the sink. Four clean spots shone innocently on the stove.

The squalling alarm silenced. Aunt May soaked a sponge and began to wipe away the black flakes and spatters on the stove.

When she spoke, her voice was pleasant as always. "Now, what happened?" Her gaze shifted expectantly to Peter.

"Don't look at me!" Peter protested. "Ask Sam."

Aunt May's eyebrows hiked up her forehead in surprise. "_Sam _did this?" she asked in a voice that suggested that she more expected a troupe of elephants to have done the damage than Sam.

Sam shrank back, his hands sliding deep into his apron pockets. He twisted his fists nervously, his gaze lowering to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Aunt May," he mumbled. He scuffed the side of his foot over the floor. "I didn't mean to do it, really. I just got sidetracked, and I forgot to stir the pasta, and––"

"It's okay, Sam." A slow smile lifted Aunt May's face, making her seem even younger. She put a feather-light hand on Sam's shoulder and gave him a brief squeeze. "It's easy to lose track of what you're doing sometimes, especially when you're doing it all by yourself. But it's okay. Every once in a while all of us get a little too much on our plates to handle."

"Nobody's going to be getting anything on their plates if Sam's cooking," Peter interjected.

"Pe_ter_," Aunt May said. Her eyes fluttered shut and she sighed, but the smile remained.

"Don't pay attention to him, dear," she said, patting Sam before turning back to the stove.

"Uh . . . Aunt May?" Embarrassed, Sam shifted from foot to foot. "Is there anything I can help with? I can clean up that mess. I mean, it was my fault."

"No, no. I'm sure you're tired. Go on upstairs for a little while. I can finish up here."

"Are you sure?" Sam said miserably.

"Of course, dear." Aunt May dismissed him with an airy wave. "Go on and take a break."

Reluctantly, Sam lowered his head to pull off his apron. On his way to the door, he crumpled the apron and tossed it at Peter. It unfolded midair and fluttered down, draping delicately over Peter's head.

Sam trudged up the stairs, sliding his hand along the smooth banister. When he climbed high enough to peer between the rails, he saw smoke drifting in a halo around the light bulb. The stench of sulfur settled in the air.

He shuffled down the hallway, past the bathroom. The floor creaked under his feet. From inside the bathroom, Ava hummed above the gushing of water. Sam plodded by.

A faint square of light fell over the carpet ahead, powdering it with a soft orange glow. Faint shadows flickered erratically.

Out of curiosity, Sam meandered closer. An odd scent wafted down the hall. He froze, pinched his arms against his sides, and tilted his head to tentatively snuff the air. A musky mixture of lemongrass, myrrh, and cinnamon funneled up his nose like syrup. His eyebrows hitched up. Although he had never thought of lemons as inviting, citrus zest was more welcoming than old eggs. On impulse, Sam plunged toward the door.

Gingerly, he leaned against it, splaying one hand over the cool wood to ease it open. The hinges squawked in a whisper. Sam winced, but edged closer to peer through the crack.

_Oh, _he thought, his eyes rolling heavenward. _Danny_. _That figures._

Danny sat on the carpet, his legs crossed in a cramped position. His shoulders drooped. His hands, folded like a cradle, rested lightly on his lap. An assortment of candles surrounded him like an army; each one bore a tiny, frail arrow of flame, emitting the warm orange glow. Soft light washed over Danny, giving him the appearance of a wavering mirage. Long gray shadows stretched and trembled as though underwater.

"How long are you going to stand there?"

Sam drew back in surprise. One half of his mouth cranked up in a sheepish grin. Danny's head remained bowed, his eyes still shut, but his lips thinned in a smile.

Sam stepped in. "Didn't want to . . . you know, startle you or anything," he said, lowering his voice. He twisted the doorknob and slowly shut the door. It closed with a click.

Sam glanced around. The carpet was plush under his feet, and the shimmering light of the candles and the shadows that danced along the walls were oddly calming. The hard knots of tension stiffening his shoulders began to melt. With every breath, the rich, oily cinnamon and lemongrass filtered deep into his chest.

"You can sit down," Danny said. He tipped his head toward the breach in the crowd of candles. A clump of hair slid over his eyes, but his hands stayed in his lap. Not a finger twitched.

"Meditating?" Sam said lamely, not knowing how to answer. He bent over, propped his hands on the floor, and tucked his legs beneath him as he sat. Settling himself, he curled his hands over his knees and waited. His attention wandered to the vase of oil that straddled a tiny candle. Sticks of incense protruded from the thin neck of the vase. Demure wisps of pale smoke ascended reverently.

After awhile, Danny nodded. He moved slowly, as though edging toward a fawn that he feared would bolt any second.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was husky with all the aged sagacity of Confucius. "Meditation is the key to connecting the body to the spirit, bringing the two in union." He looked up, and a grin lit his face. "It's relaxing, dude."

In contempt, Sam blew a wet _pfft _from between his lips. "Sounds nice. I need some relaxing. I have about thirty pounds of homework due, and I just totally destroyed Mrs. Parker's kitchen. I feel like a fraying rope. I have so much to do, and can't do it all at once."

"Everybody has twenty-four hours in a day. What we do with them is our own choice."

Sam stared at Danny. His gaze drifted away. "Uh . . . yeah."

"Time management ties in with relaxation, you know."

"It does?" Sam blinked. "Seems like it wouldn't. Time management equals worrying and stressing over schedules, from what I gather."

"It _prevents _worrying and stressing. If you decide what tasks are at hand and prioritize, you'll know on what you should focus. After you tend to the more pressing things, you will be able to fully relax in the knowledge that you've done everything you needed to."

Sam's eyebrows raised. "That actually makes sense." He paused, watching curlicues of smoke twist like cottony ribbons into the air.

"Hey, Danny?"

Danny peered up through his hair. "Hmm?"

"How do you always manage to stay so . . . so . . . _chill_?"

Danny raised his head, leaning his cheek against his shoulder. Surprise manifested as yellow crackles in his eyes.

"Chill?" He nudged his fingertips together pensively. "Tranquility is not innate, Sam. It results through the tempering of patience."

Upon noticing Sam's scrunched expression of confusion, Danny sighed. The point of flame on a candle jittered in the breeze.

"To be calm about things, one must take it all in stride and know that he's going to do all he can to ensure it all works out. You have to know that you cannot control everything that happens, but you can control yourself and what you make of things. You cannot always seek to rush into circumstances; at times, you must let them flow to you."

"Oh." Sam pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, pondering what hidden force or god prompted Danny to speak in such convoluted riddles. He briefly wondered if the spirit of Confucius sought living bodies through which he could project his husky proverbs.

_Confucius zombie, _thought Sam. He shifted, the carpet rustling under him, and curled his hands more tightly around his knees. He watched Danny expectantly. His frown bent deeper.

"What about the zen thing?"

"Are you speaking of meditation?" Danny pinched his forefingers and thumbs together and held his splayed hands just below his shoulders. The characteristic yoga posture made Sam grin unwillingly.

"If tranquility and all that comes from inside, why do you sit in here all hunched up like a monk with all these candles and perfumes?"

A shadow of amusement passed over Danny's face. "Tranquility comes from the heart and must be learned. Relaxation, however, is the body's method of joining the heart. As one is relaxed inwardly, he must also relax outwardly."

Sam squinted one eye, as though attempting to decipher Danny's eloquent prose. Candlelight tossed little spots of orange into his eyes.

"Do you think maybe . . . you could show me some of that zen stuff?" When Danny's eyebrows hiked up in surprise, Sam hastened to add, "I don't want to cram my gut with tofu or sniff Himalayan herbs or shave my head or anything. Just teach me the normal stuff, like the yoga."

A quiet puff of a laugh sent the candle flames reeling again. Danny's necklace jangled daintily against his collarbone when his shoulders shook.

"I'd enjoy showing you," he said, a smile chasing away the sage dullness in his eyes.

He scooted forward, carpet grinding beneath him. He bent closer to Sam. The nylon windbreaker tied around his waist rustled.

"Firstly," Danny said quietly, "you must breathe. Slowly. Evenly. Every breath must bring renewal to the body like the fresh forest breeze after a rain. Visualize the stresses and toxins dissipating from every nerve."

"Just breathing, huh? I've had years of practice for that," Sam said. Danny's expression remained the same, and Sam peevishly realized the humor was wasted.

He wriggled around to a more comfortable position and let his eyes droop shut. In the darkness, the woody spiciness of crushed cinnamon smelled a hundred times sweeter. Bursts of color swirled along the back of Sam's eyelids, vibrant and dreamy. The radiant warmth of the dozen candles delicately surrounded him like an intangible blanket. Sam tightened his jaw to stifle an ear-popping yawn.

_No wonder Danny can sit here for hours, _he thought vaguely. _He probably falls asleep._

"Are you aware of anxiety's physical manifestations?"

Sam cracked open one eye to stare at Danny.

"You mean stress and stuff?" When Danny nodded, Sam straightened a little to give his shoulders a brief roll and slowly pulled his back into a curve. Vertebrae popped like hot chestnuts. Sam winced.

"It feels a lot like rocks all jammed up into my backbone. And you know that twangy sound a tight rubber band makes when you pluck it? I feel like that all over; like if anything pulls me tighter, I'm going to snap."

Danny pulled up one shoulder in something of a sympathetic cringe. "One must always make sure to never bite off more than he is able to chew." Having delivered himself of this, he straightened, crossed his legs more securely, and smoothed his palms down his thighs.

"Now," he said, "after you have rhythmically breathed long enough to feel completely relaxed, you may begin to calm your tumultuous thoughts."

Sam resisted the urge to blurt an eloquent "huh-what?" He shook his head to clear the numbing fog of drowsiness, blinked away the haze, and stared hard at Danny. Danny's mouth moved, but the words that melted slowly forth were no more comprehensible than the whirr of an eggbeater. Sam's eyes sank half-shut, and his jaw slackened. Danny faded to a blond blur.

"Sam . . . . ?" Danny's voice floated through the mist, distant and ethereal. "Sam, have you already begun a mantra?"

Sam raised his head slightly and blinked again. Danny looked like a mosaic. He squinted, his face scrunching into a confused sneer.

"What's a mantra?"

"A mantra," said Danny, his voice coming out as a strained sigh, "is a word or phrase repeated. It has a calming effect, and because it limits the mind's focus, it blocks the stream of consciousness to induce relaxation."

"Oh. Okay." Sam wondered how many dictionary definitions Danny had memorized.

His smile returning as a shadow of its former state, Danny extended his hands, his rough palms flat. Sam looked down.

"Here," Danny said, furling his fingers in a beckoning gesture. "I'll show you. Straighten up a little."

Sam adjusted his shoulders and tightened his back. Danny's hands remained outstretched expectantly.

_What am I supposed to do? _Faint wrinkles of disgust bunched around his nose as he eased his hands forward. Barely before Sam's hands left his lap, Danny's own hands closed over them. Their fingers clumsily laced, and Danny rested the heels of his palms on Sam's knees.

Sam dug his elbows into his legs to steady himself against a shiver. Danny's hands were rough and chapped from blistering _chi, _but the backs were smooth and cold. Sam flexed his fingers against Danny's, hoping Danny didn't notice the slimy sweat that was oozing from his palms.

"Now," said Danny, closing his eyes, "focus on nothing but your mantra. Let your mind's eye watch the words scrolling through your thoughts to envelop them. Concentrate, and breathe."

_A mantra? Okay. Danny's hands are holding mine, Danny's hands are holding mine, Danny's hands are holding mine . . . . _

Sam pressed his tongue into his cheek to withhold a nervous laugh. His hands were growing hot and clammy against Danny's, slick as an oyster. He fidgeted and wondered if Danny noticed.

With his head bowed and his bangs hiding his face, Danny radiated peace. A halo of wavering golden light encircled his head. His ribs shifted under his tight shirt when he breathed, slow and deep like a hibernating bear. His fingers lightly brushed over the ridgy tendons on the backs of Sam's hand. The tingling tickle made Sam curl his fingers more tightly into Danny's hands.

When Danny spoke, his husky voice poured from his mouth as slowly and thickly as syrup.

"Are you more relaxed than you were?"

Sam's tongue felt like a chunk of shoe leather in his mouth. He swallowed hard and managed to say, "Yeah." He cringed at the squeak in his voice.

Danny squeezed Sam's hands more tightly, and Sam jolted with surprise. Glancing away, he pretended to cough a little.

"It's not wise to push yourself too far," Danny said quietly. The labored, pretentious drone faded from his voice, leaving behind dregs of concern. He smoothed his thumbs over Sam's knuckles, slowly, as if drifting through a trance. When he finally looked up, there were lines between his eyebrows. He frowned.

"You are an essential part of the team," he said, even more softly. "When one is burdened, all suffer." He paused long enough to draw Sam's hands closer. "For your own sake, and for the sake of the team, be more conscious of what you undertake. Be careful, Sam."

For a reason Sam couldn't explain, Danny's gentle warning made something in his chest tighten and a warmth bloom through his body. He couldn't remember the last time someone had liberally expressed such concern for him. It was partially his own fault: he fiercely pushed away tender coddling. But somehow, he couldn't tell Danny "shut up" or "let me handle it" or "I can take care of myself!" There was a vague firmness in Danny's tone that offered no room for debate, and that comforted Sam more than anything. Danny refused to let him argue the fact that he needed to settle down and refused to let him insist that he was fine.

Sam looked down with embarrassment, his cheeks cramping with warmth. He fumbled for something to say, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek.

"I . . . well . . . Danny, I––"

Before Sam could stammer some minced attempt at thanking Danny, a sharp rap at the door made him snap his teeth into his tongue. Danny involuntarily clenched Sam's hands, his eyes widening.

The doorknob rattled, and the hinges yelped when the door eased open. Ava leaned in, her hair falling in a damp mop around her shoulders.

"Hey, boys, Mrs. Parker said to––" She paused, and her eyebrows angled low over her eyes. As though she had just stepped into the chimpanzee exhibit at a zoo, she slowly glanced from side to side.

"What are you doing?" she said, her gaze drifting back to Sam and Danny.

"Oh, uh, Danny's just teaching me some chill methods," Sam said, nodding at Danny. He managed a lopsided grin. "I'm relaxing."

Ava stared at Sam's and Danny's linked hands. Her lips pulled into a subdued catlike grin, as though she were attempting to hide it but failed.

As if he had just been clocked by a brick, Sam lurched back a little, tearing his hands away from Danny's faster than he would have let go of a tarantula. He scrubbed his hands over his jeans to scour away the tingling sweat, his palms burning.

Ava crumpled against the doorjamb, clamping her arms around her stomach as she laughed. Sam glared while Danny looked slightly dazed.

"Get a grip, Ava," Sam said in disgust.

Ava's laughter faded into snorts. She delicately traced under her eyelid, smearing away tears and traces of mascara. Her silly grin stretched tight over her face as she turned to retreat breezily down the hall.

"By the way, Mrs. Parker said to get ready for supper," she called cheerily. A couple of giggles floated down the hall.

"Girls," Sam said vehemently. He unlocked his legs from their crossed position and stood. Surprisingly, even after having been stationed in that cramped position for so long, he felt refreshed, as if just awaking from a much needed nap.

"Hey," he said, twisting from side to side to loosen his back. He felt loose and pliable as a wet bag. "I think there might be something to this monk hoodoo, after all."

Danny dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Of course there is. I wouldn't share with you what I have if there were nothing to it." A sly grin tipped up one half of his mouth. "If you ever feel spread thin, I'll take time out of any day to chill with you."

"It's not like I'd want to spend all my spare time snorting persimmon oil or anything . . . but sure." He paused halfway out the door, thought a moment, and glanced over his shoulder at Danny.

"Thanks, man."

"Any time, dude. Any time."

Sam padded down the hall, a giddy smile making his eyes crinkle. The sweet scents of lemon and cinnamon and the gentle glow of candles was calming, but Sam sensed that what had really made his stress melt away was Danny himself.

_I don't hold stock in any of this zen stuff, _he reminded himself. He clomped down the stairs and hooked a turn into the kitchen. Peter was at the table, picking macaroni off Ava's plate while Ava asked Aunt May if there was skim or whole milk in it. Without looking at Peter, Ava popped his hand with her fist, smashing it into the steaming macaroni. Peter clamped his teeth into his lip so his shout escaped as a buzzing hiss, and wrested his hand away to wring it violently. Macaroni slung left and right, plopping onto the floor. Ava self-righteously settled herself.

Sam helped himself to several steps backward, suddenly longing for the dim sanctuary of Peter's room and Danny's cool, calming hands.

_I don't hold stock in any of this zen stuff, _he thought. _But it sure can't hurt._


End file.
